


Before, After, Sherlock

by liispier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liispier/pseuds/liispier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds himself slowly but surely being drawn into orbit around Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before, After, Sherlock

It’s funny how John’s life can be split very distinctly into sections. There is the period _Before_ where, as a young man filled to the brim with ideals, he practised sutures and dodged bullets and thought he was invincible. Then there are the months _After_ , where his hand shook and his leg hurt and his trust issues kept him more lonely than he’s ever willing to admit. Then comes what he likes to call _Complete, Utter Chaos_ or, in its shortened form, _Sherlock_.

John doesn’t like to think too much of _Before_ ; it only serves to remind him of how things have changed. In the _After_ his life was relatively simple--wake up, see therapist, get through the day--with only occasional interruptions in the form of dinner with Harry and old rugby friends. He felt odd, detached, slotted back into the mould his old life except it had changed, or he had changed. Harry looked at his leg with sympathy, but her well-meaning offers of a place to crash were sharply offset by the gulps of wine she took to wash down every bite, and he hadn’t saved lives of nameless soldiers only to come home and watch hopelessly as he lost his sister to the only vice she could never shake.

He doesn’t know which is worse, sympathy or the blind eye turned by his friends. He thinks maybe he was more at ease surrounded by barbed wire and sleeping with Kevlar. But those thoughts only come when the tremors are at their worst, or when he finally manages a good night’s sleep or, as Sherlock says, when he finally spends two seconds not lying to himself.

  
Mostly, John dreams in violent explosions of colour, blurs and rushes of sound that make him kick the duvet and twist on the sheets. He jerks away more tired than he was before bed, sweat-drenched and heart pounding, exhaustion soaked in bone-deep. His days are clouded in a strange lethargy not cured by rest. PTSD, his therapist says, shock and injury to his system; completely natural, considering his traumatic experiences, and perfectly possible to overcome, if he just opened up to her.

Weeks of sessions, and they’re still circling around the same problem; John’s simply not the type to open up to anyone.

When it comes to _Sherlock_ , John supposes it never really was a matter of opening up or overcoming trust issues. Sherlock doesn’t wait for things to be given to him, he reaches out and takes them, snatches them out of John’s hands and mind and heart with casual disregard as though John has no defences. Sherlock doesn’t expect John to give an inch, or two, he doesn’t even seem to care. It’s easier, then, to just let things happen once the decision is taken out of his hands. How does one expect to guard against someone who knows everything already? John’s not a fan of fighting losing battles. Not this particular one, anyway.  


* * *

  
John finds Sherlock’s dependence on chemical substances worrying to say the least.

“Is--is that five patches?” he asks, vaguely scandalised, but not really sure why. Maybe because he didn’t realise they were currently experiencing a five-patch problem. He says as much.

“Oh no, it’s a two-patch problem at most,” is all the reply he gets. Sherlock’s lying sprawled on his back on the sofa, eyes closed but arms raised above his chest.

“So the other three are...”

“I find they distort the world in the most fascinating way.”

“You--are you sure that’s safe?” asks John, but it’s not, of course it’s not. John’s a doctor, he knows it’s not safe; especially not in as high levels of use and dependence as Sherlock exhibits. If he has any sort of common sense he’d go over there and rip those damn patches off.

He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a ham and cheese sandwich.  


* * *

  
Frequently John wonders why he let himself be dragged into this. He ignores the little voice telling him _because it’s fun and exactly what you have missed_. He keeps wondering.  


* * *

  
Three weeks after John moves in with Sherlock, he steals into Sherlock’s room whilst he’s out chasing leads and takes the violin.

It requires every bit of willpower he possesses not to destroy the thing then and there. And if it happens to be bumped against the wall, the door, the kitchen table on the way back to his room upstairs, well, these things happen.

He’s lasted longer than most would have, he’s sure of it; at first the stammered screeching kept him awake when the nightmares were bad, which he was rather thankful for. Then, on the tail end of too little sleep and too much excitement, he fancied maybe the screeching was starting to resemble a melody. It just so happens, four nights ago they hit a bump in the case and Sherlock has decided talking the case aloud to John just really didn’t do well enough this time.

Four nights ago, John came to his senses; from then, it was only a matter of time.

He doesn’t expect to keep it a secret for long after Sherlock returns. It’s the most frustrating and liberating thing--living with Sherlock--to not be able to keep secrets. He’s free to speak whatever’s on his mind, but he always runs the risk of finding out some small nugget of truth about himself that he’d be better off not knowing.

Sherlock’s not two steps in the door before he stops and tilts his head in John’s direction.

“You said you wouldn’t mind.”

What’s the point of even pretending? “No,” says John, “I never said that. You never gave me a chance to express an opinion either way. And _you_ never said anything about playing it at three in the morning.”

“I told you I play it when I think.”

“Normal people sleep at three in the morning.”

“John.” Sherlock tugs off his scarf and flings it over the back of the sofa, the tilt of his mouth expressing his distaste better than words ever can.

“Right, of course you don’t fall into that category. Well I’m afraid you won’t be getting it back, so I suggest you find another aid.”

The smugness lasts all the way until that evening, when Sherlock barges into his room barely--John squints at the alarm clock--ten past two, and says, “What do you think about the line of chalk left on the body?”

Really, he brings it upon himself.  


* * *

  
Before John met Sherlock, his life made a lot more sense. He was a man of knowledge, of routine and predictability (though Harry would certainly argue that label considering his choice of joining the war). He knew how to field dress a wound with the patient bleeding out beneath his hands, all whilst under heavy enemy fire. He knew what it felt like to have a bullet tear through skin and muscle and lodge in bone, knew the endless hours of painful recovery, of not knowing his own body.

He supposes he still is a man of knowledge. His sphere has just expanded slightly--increased to incorporate the view of London from the rooftops, the fastest way to cut across a city in chase of a moving vehicle, the thoughts and habits of serial killers. The simultaneous effect of five nicotine patches on a man. All knowledge, accumulating in his mind, and useless to everyone and in every situation John will ever encounter again. Yet he still holds onto them.

There are days when he misses the predictability; the assurance of a date gone well, of knowing what to expect out of his day when his eyes open in the morning (even if it was just _wake up, see therapist, get through the day_ ). Those days are rarer now, whether due to the continued lack of sleep and the subsequent altered state of mind or the surprised, faintly pleased look Sherlock has recently begun to bestow with increasing frequency. John finds himself slowly but surely being drawn into orbit around Sherlock.

Sherlock is now pacing. His hands cut through the air with impatience as he mutters to himself, thinking aloud, as if his thoughts come faster than words can convey. John yawns, eyes watering but adjusting finally to the lamp light. He untangles the sheets from around and between his legs, props himself up against the headboard and says, “Run that by me again?”

 **end**   



End file.
